Loser
by A Starr Is Reborn
Summary: I'm a loser. I have been for a while, and I'm okay with that. Being a loser is easy, safe. Or, it was for a while. And then a blood fairy danced into my life on the heels of some Animal Planet style carnage and suddenly everyone started paying attention. AU, OOC


I'm a loser.

I know it.

I realize it.

And I accept it. Yeah, that's... that's really all there is to it; I know who and what I am and I'm okay with that. Maybe that's weird to some, and maybe some will wonder why I'm this way. They might ask themselves "why, oh why, should she even be remotely OKAY with being a loser!?" And they won't get answers, unless they have multiple personalities... But even those personalities couldn't answer quite correctly. Because yeah, I know this is weird. But I'll go ahead and say... I'm pretty content. In fact, I'm very content. I'm incredibly happy. And I don't show that well, but I am.

I'm not popular and pretty. I'm not a jock. I'm not smart. Or geeky and even nerdy - and yes, they ARE all different, I can tell. Not goth and I can't play instruments. I'm certainly not artsy, even if I wish I could be. I'm not poetic, I'm terribly shy on stage so I can't act for shit. I can... cook, but I can't cook, if that makes sense. The thing is, I'm not even picked on. I'm not made fun of or targeted. Everyone that talks to me seems to like me well enough, but not a one of them is my friend.

No one knows me. And no one cares to know me. And, well... I'm not too bothered by that. As long as I'm not bullied, as long as people remember I exist but forget I'm there, I'm okay with that. I prefer sticking to myself, and not sticking out. It's... nice. It's peaceful and NOT stressful.

"Bella, dear, you walk like a man," my mother called at me from the living room as I slammed the front door and trudged towards the stairs. It's not that I'm angry, I'm not, people misunderstand me. I just don't always pay attention to what I'm doing. Sometimes doors are heavier or lighter than other doors, and I never pause to adjust.

"I know, mother," I rolled my eyes, raising my voice slightly as I continued my beeline for the bedroom at the top of the stairs. My bedroom. "And I'll have you know my posture is perfect."

"Don't raise your voice, darling," I sighed softly to myself.

"Seriously?" I hissed under my breath, pausing for a moment to wrestle down the urge to yell something pot-kettle like and profane back at her. I took up my travel once again after I'd huffed lowly, my first step a particularly, deliberately heavy one, followed by lighter faster steps that weren't enough to bring me to my only solace before mother intervened.

"Sweety?" Her voice was like sugar. I'd never liked sweets, they made me feel nauseous. I felt bile rise in my throat at the tone, but swallowed and turned sharply on my heel to face her. I know I looked weary, and most especially wary. Because I was. Very much so. My mum, she... might be bipolar. The library won't let me check out the DSM-V so there's no telling, because I'd love for anyone to try and convince her to see a therapist. I tried that once, it started a one-sided screeching match. Not screaming, no, hysterically shrieking. Think banshee. Just about there.

"Mother?" She cocked one brow, lips turning down at the corners. I get my emotions from my dad. I'm not good at expressing them. Mother was good at both, expressing - some that were even quite faux - and not. So my face was set in whatever blank slate it looked like when I didn't want to deal with her. But my shoulders were hunched in defeat, and I knew she saw that. She smirked, stepped up one foot, and only one, on the bottom stair and implored me with her eyes.

"Come speak with me," I closed my eyes briefly, felt my mouth twist in accordance to the turn in my stomach, but cleared my face in less time than it took to blink and nodded tiredly. My shuffle back down the stairs was slow, and I couldn't push myself to move faster despite her eyes cutting sharply into me from her perch. I could feel its burn acutely, knew the smirk curling at her lips to complement it. I knew it as something almost primal. The smile almost requires fangs.

One of those smiles, see. It's an almost dangerous thing. It's like the smile of a predator. She's like a vampire, or maybe a succubus with that smile; it means she's about to suck the life and happiness from you.

"Hurry along," she clapped, and like the loyal dog- err, child she raised me to be, I did exactly as she asked. I scurried down the last few stairs with a skip in my step but she grasped my arm by the elbow, tugging sharply on it. Too sharply. I swallowed the low murmur of pain that bubbled up in my throat and turned to her, my expression mostly neutral but for one slightly cocked brow. "Don't run, dear." I clenched my jaw, knew a muscle to twitch and jump with how much my teeth were throbbing, but only nodded once. I get my muscle strength from my mother, in that I usually put too much muscle behind doing something.

I accidentally break things a lot. I've already spoken of my door thing. Mum, though, I swear she's got a kung fu action grip or something, she could crush steel with that grip, and turn diamonds into dust. So I might bruise. I'll probably bruise. I will bruise. Gosh, but that smarts. Sometimes I wonder if she even thinks... But I know she doesn't usually, not if it doesn't involve herself. I love my mother... But she's incredibly selfish. It's distressing. And depressing. Sometimes I get moody because of it; it's why being a loser is so ideal. I don't have to explain my family life to anyone, why I don't like yelling, and why I don't like being touched. And also why I don't like talking to people, or dealing with emotions of people.

I sat myself on the overstuffed couch that dominated the living room. We had dark, hardwood flooring that was offset by the soft green tone my mother picked out to paint the walls. I can't complain, the dark and light play of colors is nice, it's soothing in this weird way. The couch itself was one of those leather ones - but the kind that's almost got a deer-skin feel to it, so probably nice-looking pleather - that was just as dark as the floor. Its mate was the lazy boy my dad usually dominated, and off in the corner on the opposite side of the doorway into the living room from the bottom landing of the stairs was this off-white loveseat that was my usual perch. But I knew better than to claim it, because mum wanted to 'talk' and what that really meant was that she wanted to convince me to follow her set of choices in life she'd picked out for me, years before she ever got pregnant.

She can be controlling. But it's okay; she's just my mother, it's what they do... right?

"So school..." she started with a bright smile and an easily recognizable spark in her eyes. She's a bit of a gossip queen, on occasion. I glanced at her, perched on the exact midpoint of the couch - I was crowding one of the arms, leaning heavily on it, almost crawling over the thing just to make sure she didn't get too near me. I know her game. She knows mine. I try to stay away from her. And she tries to crowd my air space, because she knows that it makes me really uncomfortable and that I'll be easily cowed the more uncomfortable I get. I rolled my eyes away from her, not rolling my eyes, so much as moving them from that snarl-y smile.

"Was school," I shrugged, practically whispering it in my usual rasp. My mother wants me to speak lighter, higher - in a voice more proper for a lady. It's not that I'm some baritone, deep bass voice, but my voice kind-of husks and gravels on its own. So my mother, she wants me to speak in a fake voice, so people will like me more. She can be controlling. But I can be resistant. I felt more than saw her shift, heard the material squeal as she moved. I swallowed reflexively and stared at her for a long moment. "Listen, I've got homewo-"

"Why don't you do something with your hair? You would be much more attractive," I knew I'd already lost her and sighed to myself as she slid ever closer and reached out to curl a lock of my hair around her finger, rubbing the strands with her thumb. "It's pretty, but you could do better."

"I know, but I like my hair," The way it is. That's what I want to say, but I know what she'll say-

"Yes, but you could love it. I could love it. I bet the boys would love it, wouldn't that be nice?" I blushed without reason and squirmed as she shifted, dropping the hair and gripping my chin in her kung fu action grip so she could turn my face her way. "And make-up! You would be a knock out!"

"Mom!" I raised my voice a notch, paused to lick my lips and consider my next words before speaking slowly. "I like myself."

"Oh honey," my mother cooed, patronizingly. It sounded endearing, but in these instances it rarely was. "But this isn't what you could really be!"

"Are you saying I shouldn't be happy with myself?" She had somehow shifted even closer still, and was now cupping both my cheeks between her hands.

"Sweety... mother knows best, and I could be happier with you," Ow. That one kind of hurt. Guess there goes another day, not being good enough for you. "So-"

"I've really got a lot of homework, mother," I spoke softly, my eyes cast down. Meeting her eyes for too long somehow made her think, sometimes, that I was being a... gosh, I can't even recall what she assumes, I'll just go with brat. Brat. Child. Baby. Weak. Mediocre. All of mum's favorite words to use when she's mad at me. Well, favorite appropriate words. She smiled blithely as she removed her hands from me, but not before one last pat to my cheek that was almost painful and a final comment she tossed at me as she stood up.

"Then why aren't you smarter?" I cleared my throat loudly, but she'd already turned away and this wasn't an attempt to get her attention. It was an attempt to alleviate some of the tension choking my vocal chords, throttling them viciously and trying to convince my brain that I should scream at her. "I'm gone, darling; I'll be back by Friday." She was going on some business trip. Code for - going to fuck her affair partner. Dad didn't know. I wasn't obligated to tell him. Snitches get stitches. Daddy's got a temper. Those two things aren't just a coincidence. She's been carrying one out for the past... six to eight months. I try not to pay too much attention to my home, so I'm not really sure.

"I guess I don't try hard enough," I finally spoke, more to myself than to her. I was almost certain she was much too far away to hear, and I was just speaking to the ratty New Balance's adorning my feet. I'd had these things so long they were practically a second skin. They'd seen a lot of pavement, forest floor, and linoleum in their time. I loved them. Mother had attempted to throw them away exactly four times.

"Well there's an idea! You should try harder, for me!" Mother called to me in return. I could hear that plastic smile in the tone, and frowned down at my shoes in the way that I and my father do. Which is with a barely there expression people usually mistake for nausea.

"Yeah..." I breathed out on the wind of a heavy sigh. I pushed up from the couch, flicking hair over my shoulder as I did so and peering at the doorway that would take me out to the stairs. I should try harder. I should find religion. I should work out and eat right. I should study for tests. I should get over my shy tendencies and go make friends. I should be more normal for my mother. I should be more perfect for her. I should, I should, I SHOULD! And I'm not. And it sucks. Because I do try, I try to be good enough, I've tried for going on a decade - at least - to make her proud of me, to hear her tell me she loves me. But every time I hear it, it sounds more and more fake.

Like a Barbie that can speak with preprogrammed words and phrases. Sure, she makes you feel special, but then you realize it's the same thing she says to everyone. It's the same golden hair and shining, painted on smile that she shows everyone. You aren't special, you aren't even unique. And you aren't her friend, even if she keeps saying you are. And you keep hoping that maybe she'll say something new one day. But she doesn't.

Something like that; that's my mother. The plaster mold smile she must have had grafted onto her face. Perfect hair and make-up. She's perfect. She's this unreachable ideal, and no matter how hard I try, I just seem to be tripping farther and farther behind. She doesn't love me for me. She loves the idea of me as this pretty little cookie cutter housewife. Living in my cookie cutter home. With my husband and two point five children. White picket fence and an all-American canine running around our backyard. She wants me to be what she wants. And doesn't care if I've got an opinion. Because I don't. Not to her.

It should bother me, I think. I'm not sure; things have always been like this, though, so it's so regular at this point I don't even recognize what's going on. She might be a bad mother. Or she might be a good one. But she's mine, and I'll work hard to make her say she's proud, she loves me - and mean it. So I sighed again, shook my head and moved towards the doorway. By the time I stepped out she was just coming down the stairs hefting a large suitcase.

"Need some help, mum?" My smile wasn't even fake, and it wasn't big, more like a twitch or the littlest quirk of my lips, but it was still real when I presented it to her. She returned it, and it almost reached her eyes but then she glanced at her watch and forgot about that almost real moment. So close... But hey, there's always next time. I'm just stubborn enough to keep trying for it. She nodded and hobbled a little faster down the stairs. I mirrored her earlier motion, stepping one foot up on the first stair and reaching for the bag. My mother was shorter than I was, slighter. I'm taller. Fuller. Fatter, so she usually snarks. No one else has said so, however, so she could just have a nice batch of sour grapes. We said nothing else as I drug the bag out, trailing behind her. She was lost in her own world, but the speed of her step let me know she was just so excited to go see whoever it was she'd deemed good enough to give up on perfect wifehood.

It occurred to me, of course, that she was urging me to do well, so I wouldn't end up like her. I didn't have the heart to finally snap and tell her I wasn't a whore. I didn't have the heart to tell her I didn't even like men. Or... well, I might. I'm not sure. I've just known for the past five years that women are really attractive. So I've tried really hard to be normal and good for her.

Here, here; for all the good that shit did! Hoorah and huzah.

This is, once again, why being a loser rocks. No one notices me, so I can admire everyone and everything freely. The solitude brings about some sort of wisdom, sometimes. This introverted-person, sage-like knowledge that happens when you just watch and make silent observations pondering upon the world around you. I tossed the bag into the open trunk of the dull silver SUV mother preferred and slammed the thing shut. We had a charger - all black, kinda resembles the bat mobile, that sort - but she liked her big bad car. I walked back around the side to my mother's window - it was rolled down and I saw her fiddling with the radio and AC so I stopped to give her one last heartfelt goodbye.

"Bye mum, I love you," It's hard to say those words sometimes. I mean that in a general sense for the whole public. To say it and mean it. Truly. So I looked her straight in the eye, spoke no lie. And there it was... that plastic smile, and nod in return.

"I'll see you in a few days." And with that she rolled up her window and backed out of the driveway. My smile, the one I'd worn for her, that genuine one... kinda died a bit. But I let out a breath, rolled my shoulders, turned and walked back into the house without another word - even if I'd wanted to, what could I say to the empty air that would satisfy? The door slammed loudly, and in the suddenly too-empty space it echoed ominously around the foyer. But I was feeling mopey, so it hardly bothered me. I trudged up the stairs trying to avoid blaming myself.

I used to do that to make myself feel better - like, if only I try HARDER... - but then one day puberty hit and I reached maturity (not necessarily in that order) and suddenly it all made sense to me... that love and affection, that's a two way road. And all my try, try, trying again wasn't succeeding because the responding party wasn't responding. Ahh, requited love. Err, unrequited. It should be requited, she's my own damn mother, for God's sake!

For once, when my bedroom door slammed shut loudly, rattling in its frame, it was because I'd done it on purpose. I'll admit, I was pissed, or... well, I'm not too much for dramatics, so I was actually more peeved than anything. I felt the sting of my mother's thoughtless rejection, and I was reacting to this source of distress with a violent, physical display of my dislike for those actions she took upon me. It was all very rational in my head, but it didn't stop me from gritting my teeth and squeezing my eyes shut tight, cursing through my teeth, kicking and stomping my feet. I was being childish again, but I almost didn't care enough to stop.

Only almost, however. So I soon did, and sat on the edge of my bed, red in the face, feeling suddenly exhausted. When I was young I never even realized I was being ignored. I like reading, always have, always will and that kept me occupied. And I suppose I've got this quiet maturity about myself, so even prevailing through the occasional childish tantrum is my sense of logic telling me why I'm reacting, and rationalizing why it's a good thing that I react, instead of holding it in too long.

Mother taught me when I was very young that irrational emotional outbursts are not appropriate outside of my own lonesome company. She was never one to cuddle and coddle, and acting a fool because I crave attention was not wanted, needed, or appreciated. So instead of her, I turned to books. I found love in them, all sorts. And adventure. I found forests to roam, battles to fight and win, obstacles to overcome. Sort-of. Honestly it's pathetic, I don't have to be told so, I can tell. The point is that I loved reading. But it was reading that opened me up to the idea of drugs. Well, reading and my dad. He's the Chief of police of this little town we live in, and really were aren't so little that drug busts don't happen every once in a blue moon.

My own personal bust hadn't yet occurred, but I was almost certain it would. I had some hope that maybe then they would actually pay attention to me. But then I always rehashed that, thinking instead that I didn't care, because they didn't care, so fuck them if they had any complaints. Maybe I am a bit dramatic... I didn't know what was in my CD player - well, iPod doc, radio clock CD player, because it pays well to be the daughter of parents that care just enough - but I hit play on the remote and stalked to my window, forcing the creaky old bastard up after I'd pushed the blinds out of my way with my shoulder. I sighed as something melancholy and trippy came pounding through the speakers.

I squatted down, reaching over towards my bed - it was less than a foot from the window - and feeling around for the tear in the mattress. I say tear, what I mean is that I have a gnarly looking pocket knife and I once cut a hole in the mattress. It's lined with dryer sheets, just covered by the bottom edge of the sheets. I found it and pulled out my prizes. It is almost pathetic how much money I spend on weed. But my dealers are shit for finding me anything else. I mean, yeah they've got great weed and my grab bag was filled with different delicious strands of my favorite of earth's gifts to man. But they could hardly hook me up for shrooms or acid. I wanted shrooms more than acid because summer was literally days away and I was planning a trip. Camping. The local wilderness. I'm going to get seriously fucked up, get lost for a while, and eventually wander back to the house.

Good idea, I know. But I seriously don't care. I'm the unnoticed loser even in my own god damn house, so I'm getting the fuck out of here. And I've been telling them that for days upon weeks. Bet they won't remember, though... It, sadly, won't be the first time. I know it won't be the last. I can't be bothered to be bothered. That's the magic of weed, the reason I'm just okay being me. Because it could be worse.

I could be sober. Or dead. They could beat me. Or rape me. I could be on fire. I could lose a limb. Get stabbed... and none of that HAS happened, so logically speaking my small problems are just that, small and insignificant. They don't matter and I shouldn't bother with them, because I actually have it pretty damn well off. I'm just making a mountain out of a molehill. I'm just... I'm just gonna smoke this fucking weed now.

I knew when dad got home. I could hear the heavy sound of his boots colliding with the floor. My dad doesn't honestly walk, so much as lumber around. He's a big guy, with a big temper, and a big dependence on alcohol. That isn't a problem, though; drinking makes him stupid and goofy. It's sobriety you want to watch out for. That's when he's Mr. Grumpy Gills. That's when he'll raise a hand against you. When he's drunk, though, he's sweet and apologetic. I prefer dad drunk, because then I can talk to him and he's happy to see me and I'm happy to see him, even knowing he won't remember our bonding the next day. He never does. Once got angry when I brought up 'an imaginary scenario.' Kept yelling, slapping his hands down on the counter so loudly I was afraid he might hurt himself. I said nothing of course, because I'm much softer than the counter, and I didn't want him to fix his sights on me.

Because I was selfish. I didn't want my anger for him to be ruined by some drunken apology because he hurt me more than emotionally. I wanted to genuinely hate him. That was when I was thirteen, before I discovered that hatred is a sickness. It festers in your heart, rots your soul, overcomes the excuses and defenses of your mind and convinces you that hate can only be what exists. It makes you mean. And I've been around mean a lot. I... don't want that. I-I can't stand the thought of it. Because I was sick with my hatred for them. I wanted them dead, I wanted to die. I tried. You're supposed to take a bunch of pain pills and drink, right? But I despise alcohol, because of dad, and just how stupid it makes him and what I've had to do before... So much blood I've cleaned up. Glass and shattered porcelain.

He's gotten so drunk he's pissed himself. Shit himself. Tripped going up and down the stairs. Almost fell through the second story window. So I didn't want to drink on top of taking a bunch of pills.

I only got sick.

We didn't have anything too hard core. All that happened was me throwing up blood. For hours. And I tried cutting at one point too. But I could never dig the blade in deep enough to be a danger. Turns out I can take a lot of damage, but I have trouble inflicting it upon myself. Weird thing about me, I guess.

I looked down to the bowl in my hands, staring at it for a long time before I brought it to my lips and took a hit. Something large, it sat in my lungs. Hot. Burning. Choking. But I held it in until my vision started blacking out. It didn't start on the edges moving in, it was this blackness, a pinpoint of non-light starting over my pupil and expanding outwards. It'd nearly encompassed the whole of my eye before I wheezed out my breath. It was followed by a round of coughing so hard I nearly puked. It's sad, how much I smoke to feel normal. But otherwise I feel nothing. Feeling everything... it's good, and bad. Life hurts, right? Or is that love...? I wouldn't know the difference. Secretly I love, a lot. Hardcore shit. I want to love. But my dad is... He loves me, he's just... I dunno. My mother? I can't even tell if she loves me.

I can't even tell if I love them anymore. I think I must, because my heart aches for them. Sometimes - like now, actually - I'll smoke and the hurt stops and I'm just happy to think of them. Other times it hurts worse. And I'll start to resent them again. So I'll just blast something from my iPod and forget anything exists for a while. Weed is good to help you forget, and help you remember. People don't understand the second part, unless they do and they have. But maybe I'm just stoned.

"Yuuup," I mumbled to myself, shifting slowly, lazily. I was moving with the effort of a sloth, traveling as fast as a slug as I stood up from where I'd been sitting for a while. I'd just sort of sat back on my ass underneath the window, smoking and blowing it up over my head, watching the dim light play through the dense smoke. Dense because I seriously smoke too much, but I honestly don't give a shit. Sometimes it's kind of sad how much I use this shit to feel normal... and then I get high and I feel like I do now. With time and more effort on my part, I finally managed to get upright and straighten myself out, steadying myself with a hand against the sill. I stashed my bowl - this cute little one hitter, all shades of purple swirling through the body, with a few shots of silver and black running through - behind my pillow and made my way over to door.

I'm not even sure how, but I was at the bottom of the stairs after I blinked. I had to glance back up the stairs, kinda confused, before I just shrugged and peeked into the living room. I smiled when I saw dad sitting back in his chair, leg rest kicked up and a beer in his hand.

"Heya padre!" I called. He glanced at me with a slow smile and a slight wave, which I returned, stepping into the living room and moving over to him to envelope him in a quick, tight hug. He froze for just a second before chuckling and returning it. YES! Totally drunk. I stepped back with a wide grin decorating my face. It wasn't often that I could really show much emotion, but for dad it came as easy as breathing. Despite him, and his problems... I do love my dad. Its why, no matter what he says or does, I forgive him and carry on carrying on. Because he loves me too, and even mother in some weird way. He's just a bit of a drunk sometimes. Which is nothing in the grand scheme of things. Because, once again, he's not a rapist or a murderer. It could always be way worse than I have it, 'cause I've got it pretty good here. "Want some dinner?"

"What is it?"

"I dunno." We stared at each other for a moment before grinning and laughing. I don't even know why, but it was funny to us. I guess it's because me and him, we're two peas in a pod. We've got our vices to make us normal and sociable. And hungry. Mine was just better, because it wasn't empty calories, and I wasn't getting full from it. Not yet at least, because I was getting a craving and I smiled when next I spoke, "Lasagna." Dad groaned his approval and nodded vigorously, and I laughed at the display. God, I fucking love dad goofy. I'm so glad he's drunk. And if I can hang out with him he'll drink slower so he won't be fucked up too bad when he goes to bed. And then I can just go for a walk in the woods. I'd decided, thirty minutes into my stoning fest, that I was going to forgo the last few days of school.

My grades are perfect, actually. Who says weed makes ya dumb? Science? Well they've never met me, 'cause that shit is inspiring. I clean, cook, do work, read, go for long adventures when I'm high. I'm more active high than I am sober. I'm practically a zombie, sober. Then again, I'm always at home when I'm high, and mother usually isn't there... But in any case, fuck school. I was starting my trip early. And I was going to tell dad too.

"So I'm going on a trip-"

"I 'member!" Dad interrupted, with a grin and nod. A thumbs up came next and I laughed.

"Okay, cool. I'm going to go early," He paused for a moment, trying to comprehend what I was saying before he nodded slowly, taking a swig of his beer.

"Mhmm, soun's fine to me," He shrugged then, and grinned at me. I grinned back and nodded in return.

"'kay, thanks poppa!" I turned and ran into the kitchen, feeling excited energy coursing through my veins. God yes! I can't even believe he remembered, but thank goodness he approves. Then again, I'm his baby girl. I always will be, no matter how old I get; it's good to be an only child and a daddy's girl. I moved over to the pantry and pulled the doors open, scanning it for supplies... And we had none. Shit. "Yo pop! We're out of food!"

"What have we got?" I sighed, looking at the pathetic collection of tuna salad, a jar of almost empty peanut butter, stale cereal, staler crackers, an assortment of oils and condiments - unopened, because we were always prepared for food we didn't have - and brownie mix.

"Dessert and nothing else!" I called back. There was ramen in there yesterday. I know. I remember... Fuck. I ate it last night. Damn it. I turned, huffing, and stalked back into the living room. "Do you have any cash?"

I drove high only occasionally. When I really needed something. Like now. We had beef, oddly enough, and even a good assortment of cheeses that I would require, but no noodles, sauce... I mean, we didn't have a lot of food, actually. But I didn't give a damn about the rest, I was headed for the store with one mission and one mission only - lasagna. So maybe I'd be annoyed with my piss poor planning tomorrow, for today I was excited over this delicious lasagna I was going to make. I was, in all actually, also going to buy some spicy Italian sausage to add to the beef we had.

I know my way around some sausage... ignoring how sexual that sounded, I'm good with certain foods groups. Breakfast is my strong suit, but I can rock the pants off of some lasagna. My grandmother, on dad's side, was this crazy good cook. God, she was... She was great, and I don't feel ashamed to say she was my best friend. She cussed, drank, partied. Watched wrestling, played video games and poker and just... and she was a damn good cook. She left me her recipes.

So I wasn't just going to bitch out on this lasagna quest, and no other food stuffs mattered to me. I guess I was caught up in my thoughts, because the drive to store felt like seconds, and I'm usually observant. Much more than people give me credit for... then again, people don't really know me that well, regardless of that, I'm observant. Usually. I only just noticed the shiny new car I'd parked next to, and only because I'd parked a little too close and had to slip carefully from my car. I didn't even pause to question it, wonder who owned it and WHY they were here, of all places to be - I was focused, so I just... blocked it out at the time.

Jenna was working. She was this older woman, a bottle blonde that was sweeter than Apple pie and the staple of this establishment. I waved and smiled at her and she grinned back, calling out to me,

"Well hey, sugar," I adore Jenna, and she loves me. "How's your dad?"

"He's good, fine, hungry for dinner," she chuckled as I grabbed a basket and walked away, knowing I'd return to continue catching up. I was too focused still to think more about it. Maybe I was being rude - in fact I'm sure I am and I'll probably feel really bad about this later - but dinner. And that's all it took to distract me from those minor worries now. I was walking towards the meat first, the noodles I needed where just a few isles over from it and I really needed to search for that spicy sausage... still not meant sexually, but it was making me giggle to myself. Kind-of loudly. I tried to muffle it behind a hand, be a bit more appropriate in public - ignoring the fact that I'm practically alone in the store - as I turned onto the meat section. And it actually worked, I managed to calm myself as I came upon the meat, but then I tripped over someone's basket because I saw the sausage. I saw it, there was one package left, and a woman was bent over and reaching for it. Of course I rushed forward to call out one last 'WAIT, I need that!', so of course I wasn't watching where I was going.

So of course I hit this basket going at Bella's-rushed-for-food miles per hour - that's some pretty fast movement for me - and then I felt the fall. It was amazing, my whole life flashed before my eyes as the shiny silver edge approached my face. I could see how wide my eyes were in the distorted image of my face shining back at me in the polished surface. Hmm, I'm kinda hot scared... but maybe I'm high. I must be. Because I just remembered I have arms. I dropped the basket and caught myself just before failure upon my facial structures occurred, breathed a loud sigh of relief, and adjusted my footing, standing back to dust myself off like I hadn't almost just busted my face open. I cast a subtle glance up at the woman whose basket I had tripped over, an apology or maybe a snarl of irritation - she'd just left her basket in the middle of the fucking isle... I'm totally called for on some anger - but then I caught sight of her and couldn't help but stare.

She was easily the prettiest woman I'd ever seen. I mean ever. I forgot how to breathe for a moment. And I forgot how to close my mouth so I didn't look like a gasping fish. But I kind of felt like it. It was harder for any air to wheeze into my lungs when I was faced with such intensely good looks. Damn I must be high if this bitch looks almost sparkly... Fluorescent lighting and weed just don't mix on sickeningly attractive women, I guess. That being said, this is the first woman I've ever come across so attractive it almost makes me feel nauseous and dizzy. Like, the senses are too overwhelmed to deal with her. And I needed to get away. Now. I had to, so without waiting for her to speak - for I saw her mouth open and heard her inhale in preparation to say something to totally embarrass me a smidgen more - I turned and bolted. I left the basket, and cupping a hand over my mouth I sprinted for the exit, ran out and jumped into my car as quickly as possible (which wasn't very quick at all), and sped out of the lot.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

What the hell was that back there!? I've never... gaah, damn. I've literally never done anything like that ever before. I've embarrassed myself MANY times over the course of my seventeen years of existence, and NEVER have I ever done anything like that. I don't know, somehow the sight of her made me just... I really don't know what... Fuck. Something about the sight of her seriously unsettled me. Shocked me on some deep, instinctual level. And throughout every level of my body, the cells and tissues, I felt it. This utter rejection of the woman's presence. Shocked me out of my high. And I didn't understand, but... I didn't want to. I wanted to be stoned stupid, and I wanted to eat lasagna, but there was honestly no telling when that woman would leave.

But when she does leave, it'll probably be in that expensive car...

Unless Jenna won the lottery. Which is unlikely, but I'd prefer that to the truth that some crazy devil woman was here. Crazy devil woman...? I'm not sure where that thought came from, but as I leaned over - keeping my eyes precisely on the road - and opened my glove box just to pull out a blunt after rifling around in there for a few seconds, I felt that somehow that description fit. Even if I was the one that had 'eep'ed and ran out of there like a bat out of hell, somehow, in some way, I can just sense something off about that pretty face. And it's blatant enough for me to be high and notice it. So that's GOT to mean something. I just wasn't sure what. So I didn't ponder it. I lit my blunt and started my stoning once again.

There was this place I knew of. This place in the woods. It was this wonderful little clearing in the forest, a big one. Almost a large field, but not quite amassing to that size. It was vaguely bowl-shaped, standing at the edge of it you could see the soft, gradual dip of the earth as it approached the center of the clearing and this huge oak tree that dominated the middle point. It was ancient, thick and knotted perfectly for climbing. There were a few boulders - varying in size - throughout the clearing, and sparse collections of flowers dotting the verdant landscape at random. Bursts of lush purple, pale pink, and soft yellow. It was where I was planning my beginning of summer. It was also where I enjoyed smoking. From my house, walking would take me anywhere between a number of hours, to half a day. Driving to a closer spot, however, cut the walk time to about... thirty or maybe forty five minutes.

It was a bit out of the way, but I liked that. It wasn't likely that anyone would just come and stumble upon me, thus catching me in the act of smoking my favorite of earth's herbs. And I did like my damn privacy. Especially when it was my designated me-time. And seeing as how I was too anxious and freaked to go to the store - and dad was drunk enough that he probably already forgot I even left the house - I figured some me-time was necessary. Even though I'd spent the last few hours me-timing it.

"God, fuck it!" I growled to myself, closing my eyes against the dull gray of the sky. It was early evening, so the sun wasn't quite ready to set yet; there was just enough light left that the sky was still a pale gray that was almost dark. But I'd lived here all my life, so this was sunglasses weather. It was practically balmy, honestly. And here, mother was off cavorting with some hunky young dumb ass. Missing out on all the fucking fun. Sometimes I'd lose myself in wonderings of my mother... like, I bet she tells them she loves them like she tells me. With that insincere sneer. Err, smile. I pulled the blunt from my mouth, tapping the ashes off next to me and then returning it to its previous position.

I inhaled sharply, savoring the sudden burn. It complimented the already existent ache in my chest. Mummy may not love them, but at least she bothers to fake it for them. The fuck does that say for me and my pathetic ass life of attempts to garner mother's affections? It's been for nothing. A waste. I'm a God damned waste of fucking space. My own mother doesn't love me, my dad can only feel when he's drunk. I've got no friends - drug dealers don't count - and looking back at my track record, there's no hope for the future.

Why the fuck am I alive?

The impassive ceiling of clouds didn't answer. But I didn't bother to hope it would. I inhaled deeply then, closing my eyes and letting the thoughts crash over me heavily. I held by breath and waited, for what, I'm not sure. Maybe for the burn to intensify the way it currently was, maybe for the answers to the reason of my existence to dawn on me like they currently weren't. Maybe I was waiting until I passed out from lack of oxygen. And maybe, just maybe I was waiting for the wrath of god to fall upon me. Because I'm most likely gay - and god hates that shit, I think - and I smoke weed, which is probably a sin also, and I scorn my parents and I've stolen and cheated and... Honestly I'm just kind of a piece of shit, so I was waiting for... well, my judgment.

But nothing really happened, except for the burn in my lungs, that damned sensation that will NOT allow me to pass out. So I coughed and sputtered and choked; I even stumbled up and around to the other side of the tree in time to empty what remained of my lunch all over the grass on that side. I might have almost died once or twice when I was trying to breath at the same time that my body was trying to expel all that was good and once tasty in my life. But I didn't die, see; no, I just got sick for five minutes, and because I'm such a masochist I stumbled my happy ass back over to the other side of the tree and collapsed against the bark, ready to take another hit. And then something utterly odd happened.

As I sat back - cough, collapsed pathetically against the trunk while panting like I'd run a marathon, cough, cough - against the trunk, and took a slower, more controlled hit, a deer burst out of the dense foliage on one side of the clearing. It was a HUGE buck, with magnificent horns; the only thing I could liken it to was king deer from Bambi. It was regal, beautiful, and within a few seconds of catching sight of it, the thing was dead. As I sat there, puffing and enjoying the bounties of nature, a fucking fairy (and I may be high, but I swear to you a FUCKING FAIRY) leapt out of the forest after the buck that had hardly managed to take more than a few running leaps through the clearing. It knocked into the buck, and it's what I've seen too many afternoons of watching Animal Planet - the part of the show when the lion topples the antelope and rips it apart. 'Cept this was a fairy. Growled like a lion though, when it dug fingers through flesh while simultaneously yanking on the deer's neck.

The sound of the neck snapping like a dry twig probably should have bothered me... but I was more worried about the fact that Darien had most definitely given me some spiked shit... which I was not okay with. But I would save that shit storm of a bitch fit for later, and for now I exhaled the smoke and watched as the fairy bent a dainty neck and buried its face against the neck of the now-dead buck. It was fascinating to watch, just like Animal Planet - once the feasting had begun I was too entranced to look away or turn the channel. So I didn't even try to, I just watched and... It was overly entirely too fast. All too soon, the fairy drew back and it was that exact moment that an errant ray of sunlight managed to escape from the clouds and lit upon the fairy. In the sudden burst of light, she lit up like a disco ball.

Blood covered her face and ran down the pale column of her throat. She was... absolutely beautiful. And for some reason, I really liked this spiked weed because, I mean, wow. It was crazy, and this shit would probably end up killing me, but I was going to enjoy this hallucination for as long as possible. It was in the next moment that her eyes snapped open, and half a breath later those eyes - wide as saucers - snapped to mine. Her bloody mouth dropped open in a gasp, and I blinked slowly. I was smiling, and I laughed, tilting my head back to stare at the sky as the sun sank lower, such that it couldn't spotlight into the clearing anymore. Shame too, because the blood fairy stopped glowing.

On the bright side, after another blink she stood in front of me, blocking my sight of the clouds. My smile grew and I nodded at her once.

"You're very pretty you know, painted in that blood," Her eyes were amazingly beautiful. Like... gosh, it was like amber and gold, dipped in honey and slathered with caramel. Paired with her pale skin and the blood, it made her look absolutely inhuman. And gorgeous beyond compare. She was unreal. Almost like a goddess, but... I'd have to say, more like a demon. Irresistible, and if the gore was anything to go by, decidedly evil. I'd always had a thing for villains though. "I think I might like to kiss you, honestly. Is that strange?"

She didn't answer, though I'm sure she'd planned on it. Because she looked as though she'd been about to speak, but her mouth dropped open too wide to talk once again, before snapping shut. And then, then she was just gone. As quickly as she'd come, she was gone and I was left there with my weed and my own lonesome company. I sighed sadly, shaking my head and rolling my eyes at my own stupidity. Really though? I tried talking to a HALLUCINATION? Mother is right, I'm really not all that smart. I SHOULD try harder for her...

But I think I'll finish this shit first. And who knows; maybe if I'm lucky, the blood fairy will show up again.

* * *

**Oh my, but this is rather long. Well... here it is. I should have said prior, but I do not own Twilight, obviously. If I did I would be richer than I am now... which I am not. I do believe, should I so choose to undertake such a task as completing this, that this will become rather dark at some point or another. I'm not sure how dark, but dark all the same. In any case, I've not a care in the world whether you review or not, I ask only that you are cordial in all that you say. **

**There's no need to be rude, after all.**

**Alright, my final words are that I TRIED to edit this to the best of my abilities, but it is crawling into the wee hours of morning and I cannot always be held responsible for how my work runs away from my original intentions! Because this did... quite a lot actually. **


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